Warhammer 40: Shattered Steel Soul

Chapter 325 Holy Icon
When the morning light begins to shine on the ground, Morse wakes up from his slumber as usual - usually at the root of an unknown dead tree, or on a flat ground deep in the sand. He does not care about his cursed body. Where to lie.

He walked through yellow sand with high radiation concentrations. In the distance, the standing rock wall has become pitted by the erosion of time and any other factors. The poisonous red mist accumulated on the surface, like a blood-colored gauze.

Unlike Barbarus's poisonous yellow mist, which was created by the vicious curse of the sorcery overlord and the natural climate of the planet, Baal's red mist was born from an ancient dispute that once befell this land.

During the past human civil war, radioactive weapons of dark technology artificially changed the climate environment of Baal and its two satellites.

The uninhabited old city of Baal, where the radiation concentration is too high, is a half-dead proof of the bloody history of mankind.

Just above these rock walls, there were some people lying down looking down at him, holding telescopes that could not be said to be advanced or primitive, observing his whereabouts from a distance.

After Morse began to be active in the Baal market, the elders in the city paid attention to his movements.

Is there another prophet? They questioned. In their strange stereotype, the only people who can make accurate predictions are angels whose height can break through the roof, and angel brothers of angels. .

For Morse, this is actually a funny thing.

The heavy white robe Morse now wore wrapped around his legs in the wind and sand. This outfit is still the same style that was popular in Prospero decades ago, except for the additional gray and white turban that blocks the wind.

He stared at the motionless "Inspired One" and became overwhelmed as he sat down, as if it had used up all his courage.

He has always known what kind of image fits the prophet and the apocalypse in human thought - the glorious Son who descends from the sky and openly reveals his extraordinary face, or the holy old man who has no origin, is taciturn, and is extremely mysterious.

On the front of the truck, there are probably one or two radiation concentration counters that collide with each other and keep clicking.

Soon, more stalls were set up on the roadside, selling some scones, ready-made clothes and small clay toys for playing.

"The Shattere'd World. Right." The fortune teller's dark eyes penetrated the back of the tarot cards and read out the names on the cards accurately.

The fortune teller lowered his head again and whispered vaguely and indifferently, with a thick accent. "One dies. One lives."

The fortune teller's brief words made the visitor feel a penetrating fear for an instant. At this moment, it seemed that what he was looking at was no longer a fortune teller coming from afar, but some kind of more hollow echo, waiting to swallow up anything. human soul.

They were wrapped tightly from head to toe, with only one or half of their faces exposed. They were pushing carts, in which pottery pots filled with water collided with each other in the uneven motion of the wheels. This is a very valuable trade material on Parcel Moon, and it is always in short supply.

The visitor immediately picked up a card from the floor. For a moment that was invisible to mortals, the front of the card seemed to be blank. Looking again, it was clear that there were thick and colorful patterns on the card.

Under this suit of clothing, the only visible part of Morse was a slit between the kerchief and the turban, and the black eyes visible in the slit.

But it's been different lately. Very different. They came earlier and in greater numbers, far exceeding the number of people who usually come to the market to participate in trade, and their age groups were also richer. Adults come here with more than one child in their family, which is obviously more than what is needed for help.

"Take it," said the fortune teller wrapped in a thick white cloth. His voice was low and hoarse, as if it was made of frosted iron and stone, making it almost difficult to hear.

He sat down casually as usual, took out a box of cards from his sleeve, and threw it on the blanket beside him, letting the similar patterns printed on the back of the cards spread out loosely, then lowered his head and continued to sit and sleep. .

Morse leisurely entered the city-state, passed the city gate, passed the animal enclosure, turned in the winding path, entered the edge of the market, and threw a blanket under the metal plate that shielded the radiation and blazing sunlight.

In normal times, there would not be too many stalls or pedestrians, and this was already the result of the arrival of Sanguinius.

Such a voice must have been uttered by an old and wise person, and his face may also be marked with wrinkles and scars that resemble the erosion of decades of time, more so than the rumored mountains or the rift valley that goes deep into the bottom of Baal. Longer and more daunting.

It was a complex and confusing puzzle. The background seemed to be a city-state in the yellow sand. However, the cards had been cut with several scattered scratches, and then crudely reassembled in the wrong way, blending into a stagnant scene.

He stood frozen until the fortune teller patiently repeated his words a second time: "Take it."

The first person to come to the market was the water seller on Bawei.

The visitor swallowed his saliva and said tentatively: "Fortuner, I should..."

Finally, the first man sat down on the sand in front of Morse, his mind wandering and wandering.

The visitor burst into tears and the tarot cards fell from his hands, apparently comprehending the connotation of this concise interpretation. He walked awkwardly along the road in the center of the market, stumbling slowly away.

The first guest did not pay anything, and no matter what result he got, his reaction was enough to illustrate the effectiveness of the divination.

Soon, the second person squatted down in front of the fortune teller and consciously picked up a card. Before he turned the card over, the fortune teller's hand wrapped in white gauze suddenly clamped his wrist.

"Put it down." A bolt of thunder exploded in the second person's ears. His fingers trembled with fear, and the card fell from his fingers.

The diviner looked at him like he was looking at a mountain rock made of sand and stones. He didn't need to say a single word. The second person immediately understood that the other person had already learned that he was a subordinate sent by the Council of Elders of Baal.

A dark coldness followed the fortune teller's hand and climbed up to his wrist, like a cold iron rope, slowly tightening him.

His lips and tongue were blocked, and he could only squeeze out a suffocated breath. The only answer his poor thinking circuit gave him was to immediately take out all the valuables from his pockets - specifically, those were the three items he was carrying. A silver coin was presented to the fortune teller: "I'm sorry, great... master..."

After he did so, the diviner let him go, that cold touch still wrapped around his arm. The second man quickly got up and ran away.

The fortune teller picked up the silver coin in the yellow sand and tossed it casually. It happened to fall into the hands of the person who was hesitating to step forward among the more and more onlookers around him.

The man froze in place, then became extremely happy, and the worry on his face was wiped away. He bowed deeply to the fortune teller, and then quickly left the market, obviously going to do something that he had originally planned to do, but was limited by money and was unable to achieve it.

After the third person left, the fortune teller picked up the tarot card left by the second person from the sand and turned it over.

A gorgeous door carved from sterling silver stands in the dark background, as if crossing the silver door can symbolize the change of destiny.

"The Silver Door." The fortune teller whispered, a set of simple words floating in the red mist that was about to disperse. Under the background of what had just happened, there was an extra unspeakable feeling. Miraculous.

The crowd surged quietly. Even in the past few times, people who came to the market had heard about the strangeness of this fortune teller. They had witnessed the effect of tarot calculations with their own eyes and the fortune teller's ability to determine fate. It was still something else. A completely different kind of shock.

destiny. This word often has different meanings in the eyes of people who grew up in different environments and experienced different levels of ups and downs.

Sometimes, it is pursued and pursued by pessimists. More often, it is a language prop used to satirize the course of life, used in sentences of lamentation and ridicule, and is not really believed. However, when the prophecy actually happens around a person, in a mysterious and mysterious way, as if lifting the curtain of reality, no matter how much the person claims to be rational, he will inevitably have ripples in his heart.

In this way, in human society that has lasted for tens of thousands of years, there seems to have never been a lack of followers around an unexplored visionary.

At least, that was what Sanguinius saw as he glided from the higher round tower the Baals had built for him and landed lightly beside the bustling marketplace.

With just one glance, he could recognize the admiration and yearning that surged in his people's eyes.

After all, when Sanguinius crawled out of his nursery with his wings still weak, the Baal people almost looked at that unique child who looked like a mutant but was born with a halo of radiant charm with the same look. .

Belief. Sanguinius sighed inwardly. Its birth is so simple - people who need an idol to place their spirit will naturally entrust their faith to others at any coincidental opportunity.

As soon as the archangel landed, his tall figure immediately attracted the attention of most people present. His people moved forward to welcome him with joy, but did not dare to get too close, lest they accidentally offend the splendor of the angels who descended here.

"Lord Sanguinius," they called in a pious whisper, and Sanguinius responded with a helpless smile, walking towards the direction of the fortune teller amid the crowd.

Meanwhile, Sanguinius' doubts grew stronger. Who is that? At this point in the Great Crusade, he happened to arrive on his planet with a revelation-like ability?

If he is...

"No." The fortune teller said calmly in the local language, as if he could see through his heart. The archangel was suddenly startled and stopped in front of the fortune teller.

"Visitors from afar," Sanguinius's words were like a gentle breeze blowing through the still air. As time went by, the red mist in the morning was on the verge of dissipating. At this time, with a gentle flap of the angel's wings, it completely dissipated. "Barr has never seen you. Where did you come from?"

"About fourteen light-walking months from the core of the solar system, there is a planet that focuses on divination and prophecy." The fortune teller's accent became thicker, "All of Ishma's culture is rooted in antiquity. Belief in the Divine, and an in-depth analysis of prophecy.”

The fortune teller is known to be taciturn, and this is the first time the fortune teller has introduced himself on Baal.

The onlookers all gathered all their attention, half of which was devoted to admiring the handsome angel, and generally used to listen to the golden words of the inspired person.

"They use palm prints, palmistry, counting, throwing arrows, and even furs, organs, and bones of relics to predict enlightenment about the future. In many cases, their predictions are so accurate that it is difficult for ordinary people to understand, and their technology Also in the old night, we steadily moved in a unique direction and achieved a rare progress. "

The doubts in Sanguinius's heart grew more and more, like a light floating cloud, with more water vapor constantly gathering into it.

"Is that where you come from, guest?" the angel asked gently. "It sounds so far away from Baal."

"No, angel." The fortune teller gave an unexpected answer.

"Oh, but you are so proficient in divination," the angel sighed, "are you from a planet that is better at predicting the future?"

"I don't know how to divination." The man in white robe said.

His words fell among the crowd, like stones thrown into the rare water of Baal, creating a criss-crossing ripples.

This is impossible. someone said. Maybe a revelation. Some trivial voices were discussing. Or the fragments of the future that pure blood brings him. The inspired one.

Sanguinius narrowed his eyes, his eyelashes casting a shadow.

"Huh...don't you know how?"

A huge black shadow quietly appeared from behind the man in white robes. No one understood how this several-meter-tall giant sneaked into everyone's blind spot, but when they discovered that it was the rumored Midnight Angel, they naturally had doubts. Fleeting.

After all, this is the blood relative of their beloved Blood Angel.

"I really don't know how." The man in white robe changed his slow movements and stood up from the carpet neatly.

His turban slipped off his head, revealing a young face, with half-long black hair that was messily curly, and black eyes set in a sharp-lined cheek. From any angle, he looked the same as what the fortune teller could bring before. People's impressions are quite different.

The playing cards on the ground floated up out of thin air and unfolded between his open hands. The cards were facing out, allowing everyone to see clearly that it was a blank stack of cards.

His behavior elicited a number of startled reactions, including but not limited to whispers, movements of feet, and turning of heads.

"Oh." The angel was at a loss for words, and he didn't know what to say for a moment.

"Psychic tricks." Curze strode through the crowd and walked to Sanguinius. "Tricks to spy on the mind."

"Combined with a bit of vague phrasing, a hint of sincerity without an explicit lie, and excellent observation."

The man in white robe smiled, closed his palms, and the cards were also closed in his hands, and were put back into his cuffs.

"Of course, there's also the diligence of being up and on the road for a week straight. I don't even have to say who I am, and that's such a practical technique for creating an icon that even your elders almost believe it, right? "

"You are..." Sanguinius took a step back.

"Morse," the man in white robe said. After he said his name, the thick white robe on his body was also re-dyed, as if soaked in thick ink, becoming completely black. "I think you've heard of me. Now that Conrad is with you."

"Conrad did mention you," the angel said, a little annoyed at being teased, but more of an incredible helplessness. "Friend of the Emperor, this is really an interesting first meeting."

Sanguinius nodded slightly to the people in the market, and his people immediately left the area obediently. The water sellers even left their carts behind.

"As long as it's interesting," Morse shrugged. "Among the emperor's descendants with their own characteristics, you are the only one who is the most typical born icon. Therefore, I am very curious about your people's reaction to you. Is reverence the innate talent of the Primarch, or is it derived from their own need for religion? It seems that it is both.”

He tilted his head. "Have I offended you, Sanguinius?"

"I wouldn't say no." Sanguinius sighed.

"That's good." Morse smiled, "I'm glad I can make a deep impression on you."

(End of this chapter)